


you're trying hard not to show it, but baby, i know it

by StoriesofmyLife



Series: IceMav Prompts [3]
Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: A lil angst because Ice is a brooder, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Fluff, Happy Ending, Ice gets drunk and sings, IceMav, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, They're both oblivious, Tumblr Prompt, because there's no other way for these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22910890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesofmyLife/pseuds/StoriesofmyLife
Summary: Ice wants to know who Maverick was before he became Maverick. He wants to know Pete Mitchell, too, because they’re two parts of the same whole and Ice wants to love that part, too. Because Pete Mitchell was worth loving just as much Maverick Mitchell was worth loving.And God, does Ice love him.Or---The one where Ice gets drunk and serenades Maverick in front of God and everyoneFor carly's prompt: a breathy demand "kiss me" and what the other does to respond
Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Series: IceMav Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604257
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	you're trying hard not to show it, but baby, i know it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



> Hello! I know I'm a day late, but this one got away from me and I wanted to make sure it was perfect before posting. I had such a blast writing this and I hope you guys enjoy it was much as I enjoyed bringing it to life. It's a little longer than anticipated, but I love writing these boys and I get lost in the detail.
> 
> I wrote this in Ice's perspective, because I feel like we never really get to see inside Ice's brain and I wanted to get a look into his mind and see where I could go with it. He's a fun character to write, a little complex and he does a lot of thinking. He's unemotional on the outside, but I feel like that's because there's a lot going on inside and I tried to capture that. 
> 
> Thank you carly for giving this to me, I enjoy writing these and I'm down to write more if you are. I know this is a little late, but I hope you enjoy it (:
> 
> Myshka is Russian for little mouse (at least, according to google, apologies to anyone who speaks the language)

It’s Friday night, the O Club is packed with students that made it through the Top Gun program. They’re celebrating their imminent graduation by getting drunk and rowdy in a back corner, while the teaching staff is sitting in another cluster at the other end of the bar; they’re celebrating another class in the books and the freedom of a month off before the next class of hotshots come rolling through the doors. 

Ice is sitting at the bar, sipping his vodka neat slowly as he observes the chaos around him through the mirrored shades of his aviators. Maverick had told him on more than one occasion that he looked ridiculous wearing them in the dark atmosphere of the bar, but Ice, as per the usual standard, ignored him. Especially when it came from someone who thought flouncing around in those hideous cowboy boots made him look _cool._

Ice liked to wear his sunglasses inside the bar because it gave him the freedom to observe without attracting any unwanted attention if his gaze lingered too long on someone he wasn't the _least bit_ interested in. Ice liked to people watch, it was entertaining and educational. He found that more often than not, he learned more from people’s mannerisms and actions than the words that came out of their mouth and he liked the challenge of trying to get their true motives right. It was a simple game of observing, drawing clues to form a hypothesis and using deductive reasoning to gain a conclusion. He liked to make a game of it, sometimes. He liked to watch interactions between other people—usually his fellow Navy men trying to pick up women (read: _trying,_ as in, not usually succeeding)—and see if he could guess the outcome of said interaction. If he was right, he’d sip his drink, if he was wrong, he’d buy whoever he was with another drink. 

And after hanging out with Maverick for the last three months—who could drink most of the guys Ice knew under the table—he’d learned, very quickly, to get good at the game. 

He never made it a point to tell Maverick about his little game, especially since more often than not, Maverick was his usual go to for observing. And more often than not, Ice bet against rather than for. And more often than not, the outcome was in his favor. 

Like right now, Maverick was leaned up against the bar, gripping his beer in one hand and gripping the back of a chair with the other. And sitting in that chair, was the woman he was trying (and failing) to pick up. His body language read interested—open, faced directly towards her, leaned in close—and even this far away, with the dim lights of the bar made even dimmer by the dark lenses of his sunglasses, Ice could see the flirtatious smile dancing on his lips from here. He can see the way those eyes look her up and down, appraising, sees the way the smile gets wider when he meets her eyes because he likes what he sees. 

Ice can admit, she’s pretty, in an obvious, _come hither_ kind of way and judging by the smirk on her face, _she_ knows she’s pretty, too. 

Her blonde hair is piled up on her head in a way that Ice guesses is supposed to be artful and give an air of _I don’t care that much about my appearance, but I care a little bit._ Ice is willing to bet she spent at least a half hour on it, at the minimum. Her face isn't caked on with makeup, truth be told, she doesn't need it, but Ice can see where she put a little bit here, a little bit there, that most men would think was her wearing no make up at all, but Ice has sisters and he knows most women don’t leave the house without a little bit of something on their face. Especially in a social setting like a bar. 

She holds herself in a way that tells Ice she’s confident and self-assured, more than likely intelligent and if he really had to go out on a limb, she’s probably on summer break from school, where she’s getting a Masters degree. She's young, but not in that fresh faced, _I’ve never even been to a bar or ordered a drink_ way _._ If Ice had to guess, she’s closer to his age—late twenties—than Maverick’s almost mid-twenties age. Older, but not _too_ old to suggest that Maverick has some sort of mommy issues he’s looking to rectify by laying older women. She’s dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a loose white t-shirt that’s _just_ loose enough in the collar to show off her tanned skin with just a _hint_ of cleavage that told Ice she was comfortable with her body and looks that she didn’t need to have all of her… _assets_ on display. She was striking enough on her own that she doesn't need to do all that to get a guy’s attention. 

And she has Maverick’s attention. 

Too bad he doesn't have _her_ attention. 

Ice can see it in the way her body is shifted more towards the table she’s sitting at—more closed off that tells Ice she’s really only being polite in giving Maverick her attention. That or she’s playing hard to get, but Ice dismisses that when he sees the way her jaw tightens and Ice is willing to bet his wings that Maverick screwed up and said something utterly stupid that either a). suggested she scored lower on the IQ scale or b). was an affront to her independent woman spirit that even Ice could pick up on from here. 

But then she throws her head back and laughs at whatever Maverick said to make up for it and Ice can see the victorious grin on his face from here. 

Sighing in a resigned way and completely ignoring the slight twinge in his chest that he’s absolutely _not going to think about_ , Ice holds up the empty Budweiser bottle Maverick had left on the bar and catches the bartender’s eye, who slides a fresh beer down to him, taking the empty and tossing it in the overflowing trash can behind the bar. 

Ice takes a sip from his slowly warming vodka and tries to find something else to take his attention off Maverick and his conquest for the night and eventually, he settles on watching sports highlights on one of the newly installed TV’s, even though he’s never really been one for sports. 

He keeps his eyes on the TV, punishing himself by taking bigger gulps of his drink every time his eyes slide over to Maverick and _that_ girl. Orders a fresh one all together when he see’s Maverick buy her a drink and hand it to her. Tries not to notice when their hands brush when she takes the drink from him and the way she looks up at him from underneath her lashes when she takes a delicate sip from the colorful concoction. 

_That’s_ suggestive, even from here. 

The beer he ordered for Maverick is beginning to sweat, the pool of condensation making it’s way over to Ice’s shirt sleeve and since it doesn't look like Maverick is coming back over _anytime_ soon, Ice takes a long pull from it, barely concealing a grimace at the taste. He’s never been a beer guy and his grandmother would be rolling over in her grave if she knew he was letting that _American piss water_ pass his lips, but he’s desperate and a little bit drunk and he paid for it, okay? He’s not going to let it go to waste. Ice _hates_ being wasteful. Another lesson drilled into his head by his Russian grandmother who’d immigrated to America right before the Great Depression and lived through the rationing of supplies while the country was at war and managed to raise four kids on a meager seamstress’s pay while her husband fought in the war overseas. 

_“Everything has a purpose,”_ she’d say in that thick Russian accent she’d never lost, even after living in America for more than half her life, “ _and there are people who’d wish they could be so lucky, so don’t waste anything, myshka.”_

And looking over at Maverick, who’s got his hand resting on the girl’s hip as he whispers something in her ear, Ice wonders if he’s wasting his time with that, too. 

The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth, worse than the rest of the beer he swallows down before chasing it down with a shot of tequila, that burns all the way down his throat. 

It almost out burns the jealousy coursing through his veins. 

_Almost_

*

Ice is drunk. 

Like, the room is spinning, everything is numb and suddenly, any idea sounds like the best idea you’ve ever had, even if the small part of your brain that can’t be touched no matter how much alcohol you drink tells you otherwise. 

He’s not _completely_ incoherent—no matter how upset, he’s not _stupid,_ he is, after all, the Iceman. He doesn't give up control, not even when he’s well on his way to blitzed out of his mind.

But he’s drunk enough that he begins to sing along to the song coming from the jukebox in the corner. It’s Carly Simon and Ice loves Carly Simon because his mom loves Carly Simon and the song, it _fits._ Maverick isn't like, super vain, but like, vain enough to think that every woman in sight wants him and it makes Ice’s chest hurt because Ice _gets_ it. Maverick is annoying and self-righteous and cocky and so so _arrogant._ But he’s earnest in everything he does, remember how Ice likes his coffee and always has Ice’s back in the air and on the ground, too. The _perfect_ wingman. 

_You’re so Vain_ transitions into _More Than a Feeling_ and that one isn't exactly Ice’s style, but he can appreciate a good ballad as much as anyone, so he bobs his head while he mutters the lyrics under his breath ashe twirls his drink around in his glass. 

It’s only when _You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling_ comes on that Ice brightens, because Maverick _loves_ this song, he sings it all the time in the locker room shower or over their shared comms when he’s bored in the sky and while it’s always out of tune and pitchy, it’s sung with heart and it makes Maverick happy. 

So Ice decides that it would be a good idea to get up from the bar, yank his sunglasses off and wander over to Maverick, who raises an eyebrow when he staggers over and throws an arm around his shoulders and begins to sway, off beat, Ice can feel it, even in his drunken state and croon the words he knows by heart now. 

“— _you’ve lost that lovin’ feeeeeling—“_

“Ice, what are you doing?” Maverick asks, lips twitching, both eyebrows raised into his hair line. 

“Shhh, ‘m singing you a song,” Ice mutters, pressing a finger to Maverick’s lips, before he catches up with the end of the chorus.

“— _you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling and now it’s gone, gone, gone, whoaaa—“_

He lets his voice drop down to a deep baritone and he thinks he’s doing a good job, better than Maverick, at least, because even drunk, he can stay on key. And judging by Maverick’s expression that’s a mixture of disbelief and amusement, he agrees, too. 

He loses track of the words, but he picks it back up when it reaches the middle of the second verse. By now, he’s attracted the attention of most of the bar, but the alcohol in his system makes his inhibitions plummet to zero. 

“— _it makes me just feel like crying, because babbyyy, something bea-u-ti-ful is dyinnnn’—“_

The bar joins in at the start of the chorus and Ice grins at Maverick’s flushed cheeks, but he’s smiling and that smile does funny things to Ice’s chest—like someone is squeezing his heart too tightly, but it’s warm and it’s nice and he wants to always feel like this. Excited. Happy. On top of the world. 

_In love_

“C’mon, Mav,” Ice chides, “Sing with me!”

“— _so don’t let it slip away, baby, baby, baby, baby—“_

Maverick sighs, exasperated, but he complies, “— _I need your love, bring it on back, bring back that lovin’ feeling—“_

His voice is, as usual, off-key, but Ice beams down at him, throwing his head back and singing the rest of the song at the top of his lungs. 

_“—bring back that lovin’ feeling and I can’t go on, whoawhoawhooaaa—“_

The bar erupts into drunken cheers and whoops, but Ice ignores it, grinning down at Maverick stupidly, feeling pride well in his chest because _he_ put Maverick’s smile there. _Him._ Not the blonde girl that had disappeared after the second verse and was now chatting up one the students, but Ice can’t even bring himself to feel bad about it. 

Maverick didn’t seem to care that much either, which gave Ice a sliver of smug satisfaction. When he wakes up in the morning, he knows he’s going to feel embarrassed about letting himself lose control like that—in a bar full of his senior officers and students no less. 

But when he sees Maverick grinning at him in a way that Ice can’t think of as anything but _fond_ , Ice can’t really bring himself to care. 

“C’mon, Ice, let’s get you home.” Maverick says, shaking his head with a wry grin still dancing on his lips. Ice follows him without question, because he’s Maverick wingman and he’d follow him _anywhere._

_*_

Maverick had ridden here with Ice, since usually he was the one that usually panned on drinking, but since they’d both been drinking, they decide to play it safe and leave Ice’s car in the parking lot to be picked up in the morning. 

Ice had bought a house when he decided to take the teaching position at Top Gun and it was only a few blocks from the O Club, so they walk in companionable silence down the side walk. Ice wonders if it’s his current inebriated state that has him imaging their hands brushing together every few steps. Even though the thick leather of his jacket, his body is _aware_ of Maverick next to him and Ice has to fight the urge to close those few inches and grab his hand and clasp it within his own grip.

He’s not _that_ drunk, though and he resists the urge, but only barely. 

He can’t deny the desire to know what it’s like to feel Maverick’s hand wrap around his own. Maverick’s hands are smaller than Ice’s, but they have an undeniable strength about them and they tell the story of how hard Maverick’s worked to get here, in life, in his career. Ice wants to trace the scars and callouses with his own fingers, feel the dips and the grooves and map the story for himself until he has it memorized by heart. 

He knows the basics of Maverick’s story—he’s heard the rumors and he knows who Maverick’s father was. He’s heard the whispers in the locker room, he knows Maverick got denied entrance into the academy because of his father’s reputation. He knows Maverick had to work harder than any other student to get through officer school and later on in flight school. He knows that Maverick got his call sign from a back handed compliment given to him by one of his instructors in flight school, but he knows it was Goose who showed him that being a _maverick_ was a positive thing. It meant he stood out, that he was making name for himself outside of his father’s reputation. 

Ice has heard it all, but not from Maverick himself and that’s who he really wants to hear it from. He wants to know _everything_ —the good, the bad, the funny, the sad, the embarrassing. He wants Maverick to trust him with that side of himself—the Peter Mitchell side that he doesn't let show often. The young hotshot who joined the Navy because he wanted to prove something—to the world, the military, the Navy and even himself, that he could be better than Duke Mitchell.

Ice wants to know who he was before he became _Maverick._ He wants to know Pete Mitchell, too, because they’re two parts of the same whole and Ice wants to love that part, too. Because Pete Mitchell was worth loving just as much Maverick Mitchell was worth loving. 

And _God_ , does Ice love him.

They make it to Ice’s house in one piece and Ice leans against the wall next to the door for support, barely missing hitting his head on the porch light by a few inches, closing his eyes with a sigh. He’s seriously contemplating just sleeping on the porch, because digging through his pockets to find his keys seems like a monumental task at this current juncture in time and he’s not the least bit interested. 

Maverick snickers and Ice just flips him off, not bothering to open his eyes, because he’s quite comfortable, _thank you very much._

“C’mon Ice, give me your keys and I’ll get the door open so you can go inside and go to bed,” Maverick says and Ice can picture him holding his hand out in front of him expectantly, wiggling his fingers in that annoyingly prompting way of his and the thought makes him smile. 

“Don’t know where they are,” Ice says, speech only just little slurred. Truth be told, he’s not even that drunk anymore, the walk home in the cool night air had helped clear the fog of alcohol from his brain. Now he’s just tired and his only desire is to go to sleep. Or eat something and then sleep. Now that he thinks about it, it’s been well over seven hours since he last ate and under the fullness of the beer and alcohol, he can feel his stomach yearning for something other than liquid. 

_Pancakes,_ Ice thinks with a hum, _pancakes sound good. Dripping with syrup and butter. Maybe with a side of bacon. No eggs, eggs don’t sound good, though Maverick makes really good scrambled eggs, with onions and cheese—_

“What do you mean you don’t know where they are?” Maverick demands and Ice can see the little furrow he gets between his eyebrows when he’s particularly annoyed with something. Usually with Ice, but he likes to think it’s more of a fond annoyance than _annoyance_ annoyance.

“It means,” Ice says slowly, blinking his eyes open, squinting against the sudden onslaught of light coming from the porch light on his left, “that at this particular moment in time, their whereabouts are unknown to me.”

Once his eyes adjust to the artificial yellow of the light, he can see Maverick standing a few feet away from him, with his hands on his hips and the exact same furrow between his eyebrows Ice was picturing in his mind. It gives his face a pinched look and Ice has to fight the urge to reach out and smooth it with his finger, maybe trail it down the slope of his nose, to his lips that are always so plush and pink and see if they’re as soft as they look. 

“Did you leave them at the bar?” Maverick asks, trying to keep his voice level, but Ice can hear the strain underneath the attempt at calm and it makes him smirk.

“Nope,” he replies, popping his lips on the ‘p’.

“Did you drop them?” Maverick asks, running his fingers through his hair and Ice finds himself wanting to do that, too. 

Ice shakes his head, still grinning, “No.”

Maverick sighs and it’s definitely sounds frustrated now, “Then where are they, Ice? It’s late and I’m cold and I want to go inside, not stand out here and play games with you.”

His arms are now crossed over his chest and it makes the leather of his jacket pull taught at his arms, emphasizing the definition of muscle in his biceps. He’s tapping his foot against the slab of concrete that serves as Ice’s front porch, with both eyebrows raised expectantly now and it’s the perfection picture of exasperation and it makes Ice chuckle. 

“Then in that case,” Ice says with a smirk, holding his arms out on both sides like he’s about to be frisked, “I guess you’re just gonna have search me, Mav.”

Maverick narrows his eyes at him, but Ice can see the flush stain high up on his exquisitely chiseled cheekbones, the bob of his adams apple as he swallows harshly and Ice wants to follow it with his lips. Wants to know if he’d be able to feel the warmth of Maverick’s blush on his lips as it stains his skin. Wonders if it he only blushes on his cheeks or if he blushes _everywhere._

“Christ, Ice, c’mon, I’m not frisking you on your front porch.” Maverick says with an impatient wave of his hand, but underneath it, Ice can hear an edge of _something_ else there. Underneath the impatience, Ice can see something else lurking in the depth of his eyes. It looks nervous, hesitant, but not scared or put out by Ice’s suggestion. 

_Interesting_

“Sorry,” Ice returns with a mock innocent expression, “I seem to have momentarily lost the use of my arms and hands,” he makes to move his arms and hands, but they stay exactly where he has them, spread out and open at each side of his body. He even goes as far as making a show of looking to his right arm, then his left, as if to ensure that they haven’t, in fact moved, before he looks up at Maverick with an innocent grin that’s _just this side_ of mischievous. 

“No can do, Mav,” Ice says with an apologetic shrug, “I tried.”

Maverick sighs, beyond irritated, Ice can tell, but he can also see his lips twitching at the corners and Ice knows he’s fighting a smile or a laugh and it makes Ice decide to push it even further, because he’s a glutton for punishment at this point and he wants to see how far he can go with this little ruse. The alcohol that still lingers in his system is only encouraging him and he finds himself momentarily grateful for it. 

“You said you wanted to go inside, Mav,” Ice reminds him and Maverick sighs, but still doesn't move, so Ice smirks in a knowing way he _knows_ irritates Maverick to no end, “ _Unless…_ ” Ice trails off, looking Maverick up and down, sizing him up, but he’s really just using it as a chance to look, _really_ look at the beautiful specimen before him, “…you’re afraid.”

He looks back up at Maverick from underneath his lashes, giving him a dangerous grin, “Are you afraid of me, Mave _rick?”_

“No,” Maverick says with a shake of his head, jutting his chin out defiantly. 

“Prove it, then,” Ice challenges, voice barely above a whisper and he wonders if Maverick even heard him. 

But then it’s his turn to swallow heavily when Maverick squares his shoulders, chin still raised in utter defiance and closes the few feet between them and then he’s just _right there._

His body language reads as stubborn, but his sea-foam eyes are pure fire when they gaze up at Ice, glinting with determination and stubbornness and it’s so _Maverick,_ that it makes Ice’s breath catch in his throat and his heart beat harshly against his ribs in anticipation. He’s so _close,_ is the thing. The closest Ice has ever been to him, short of their brief hug when they pulled off the _Layton_ rescue and it had been a fleeting feeling of sweaty limbs and laughter and too many people around to really enjoy it. 

But now, secluded from the world by the darkness and the small bit of privacy offered by the sides of the house, Ice can commit the feeling of being close to Maverick to memory. 

He can feel their chests brush together as they breathe, smell the faded cologne and sweat on Maverick’s skin, mixed with the smell of old leather from his bomber jacket and Ice wants to taste it, _all of it_. He’s warm, despite his earlier complaints of being cold, Ice can feel the heat radiating off of him and Ice thinks it’s fitting of Maverick to radiate warmth—he’s one of the happiest people Ice knows and people are naturally caught up in his aura, like a gravitational pull and just like a planet, Ice wants to be in his orbit, constantly. 

“I’m not scared of you,” Maverick informs him after a beat of silence and Ice wonders if he’s imagining the hint of breathlessness in his voice or the way Maverick steps even closer, so they’re almost sharing the same breath.

Even though he’d been kidding when he said that, a part of him is relieved at Maverick’s admission. He doesn't want Maverick to be afraid of him, not because of _this_ …thing between them that’s become more prevalent tonight, at least on Ice’s part. Ice doesn't want Maverick to be afraid of his attraction to him, to be scared of this part of Ice that’s been there ever since he could remember. The reason why he had to become the Iceman in the first place, was to protect that part of himself because he was in the Navy and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to trust someone with this particular piece of him. _Ever._

But Maverick is standing in front of him, close enough to feel Ice’s heartbeat, every breath and he’s staring back at him in that unflinching way of his, like he’s daring Ice to say something about his silent acceptance of… _this._ Maverick isn’t silent or subtle about many, many things and Ice forgets, sometimes, just how observant Maverick can be. How intuitive he can be with other people’s emotions and thoughts. And he has to know, he has to _know,_ just how _big_ this is. How dangerous this is for Ice to admit, in so many words and gestures. 

It makes Ice’s head spin and his stomach _swoop_ in a nose dive and he thinks, _prove it,_ because he wants to _know_ , to make sure Maverick understands _just_ what _this_ means, but what comes out is—

“ _Kiss me_ ,” Ice demands in a breathy whisper. 

Time stands still and Ice can count every heartbeat, hear the blood rush through his ears, feel every rise and fall of his chest, because _he didn’t mean to say that shitshitshitshitshit—_

But then Maverick is reaching up on his tip toes to close the distance between them and Ice has enough collective brain cells that aren’t currently swept up in panic to mentally coo at how _adorable_ he thinks that is and _then—_

His lips are just as soft Ice thought they would be when they press to his. It’s gentle, unsure, almost _shy_ in it’s hesitance and Ice positively _melts_ into it, every limb unfreezing and relaxing and coming to life and he rests his hands on Maverick’s hips, pulling him in closer and Maverick’s lips part in surprise and Ice swallows his gasp with a groan of his own. Liquid fire courses through Ice’s veins, every nerve ending standing to attention as his lips move with Maverick’s, molding together and working together in perfect harmony. 

He’s content to just keep it like this—his hands on Maverick’s hips, Maverick’s fingers tangled in his hair and their lips moving together seamlessly. It’s more than anything Ice had ever dared let himself hope for, and it’s enough (it’s not, but Ice isn't greedy. He’s not going to take more than Maverick wants to give). 

But then Maverick bites on his lower lip, pulling it with his teeth and a guttural sound pulls itself from Ice’s throat and then it’s all lips and teeth and tongue and Ice feels himself spiraling, _down down down,_ sinking further into Maverick’s body and Maverick takes him willingly, sucking his tongue in away that has Ice seeing colors and shapes that he can’t even name because his brain is only thinking _MaverickMaverickMaverick._

Maverick, who’s nipping Ice’s bottom lip, soothing it with a brush of his tongue, before he’s plundering Ice’s mouth again, stealing his breath and giving it back to him in the same split second and Ice’s lungs are burning and he knows he needs air, but he doesn't want this to _end_ —

It’s Maverick who pulls away first and Ice chases him with his lips, but instead of meeting a warm and willing mouth, he’s met with something cold and hard and slightly _sharp_ and tasting distinctly of metal.

Blinking his eyes open in confusion, it takes him a moment to realize that Maverick is dangling his keys in front of his face, a triumphant smirk on his lips, despite the quick rise and fall of his chest as he tries to inhale as much oxygen as his body will allow in such a short time span. 

_“Ha!”_ Maverick crows with a grin, waving the keys around like they’re some sort of prize and Ice falls back against the wall with a look of annoyance, trying to catch his breath. 

“Is that all you were after?” Ice demands between breaths, “My keys?”

Maverick fishes around for the right key and hums in satisfaction when he finds the right one and successfully unlocks the front door. He pauses over the threshold, looking over his shoulder at Ice with a smile that Ice can’t immediately identify and it does nothing for the ball of nerves and insecurity that have suddenly found it’s way into the pit of Ice’s stomach. 

“Just come inside, Ice,” Maverick says with a roll of his eyes when Ice doesn’t move, holding the door wider in invitation, like it’s not _Ice’s_ house and _Ice_ doesn't pay the mortgage every month.

Grumbling, but trying not to show just how worried he is, he follows Maverick into the house, the knot of worry only tightening further when he’s met with silence and he wonders if he’s going to have to _talk_ about this and explain, when he thought Maverick understood perfectly clear what Ice wasn't _exactly_ telling him—

The door shuts by Maverick shoving Ice into and he has a wild thought that Maverick only pulled him inside so his neighbors wouldn't hear them fighting, but then Maverick’s lips are on his again and every coherent thought goes right out the window. 

Maverick kisses like he flies—with reckless abandon but with an undeniable skill and passion and it makes Ice’s head spin and his heart race and his toes curl and he feels like he’s going to _explode._

With a grunt, he twists them so it’s Maverick pressed against the door and Ice towering over him and he gives Maverick a chance to suck in a breath before he’s taking it from him by nipping at his lower lip, demanding entry that Maverick gives more than willingly. He slides his hands into Maverick’s jacket, letting it fall to a heap on the floor at their feet, curling his tongue around Maverick’s and sucking at it desperately. His fingers itch to touch Maverick’s skin and he pulls at his white t-shirt, rucking it up so it pulls out of the waist band of his jeans and they moan in synch when his fingers graze the warm skin of Maverick’s belly. 

It’s smooth and soft with a small smattering of hair that leads _downwards,_ but instead of following that particular path, he goes upwards, running his hands over Maverick’s chest, flicking his thumb over a nipple that pebbles at his touch and make’s Maverick part their lips on gasp. 

“ _Fuck_ , Ice,” Maverick pants, chest heaving with gasps and Ice can feel his heartbeat under his palm, where it rests between Maverick’s pecs. 

Ice hums, sliding his lips down Maverick’s jaw, mouthing at the skin of his neck, sucking bruises into the heated skin and sneaking his tongue between his lips to taste the salt that’s settled on Maverick’s skin, mixed with pine scent of his soap and the faded woodsy smell of his cologne. It’s heady and delicious and Ice’s new favorite thing. 

He sweeps his hand downward, plucking at Maverick’s belt, desperate for _more_ , more skin, more heat, to feel him, all of _him,_ under his lips and teeth and tongue and fingertips. Ice wants to feel Maverick tremble under his hands, hear what he sounded like when he loses control and surrendered to Ice, all of him, every part, handing himself over to Ice, trusting Ice to take care of him, to worship him. Ice wanted to hear him moan his name and see him fall apart, shaking with it, knowing that it was Ice that did that, it was Ice that got him there, made him fall apart—

Just as he’s sucking a pretty decent bruise into the juncture where Maverick’s shoulder meets his neck, Ice feels Maverick’s hands on his chest, not shoving him away, exactly, but giving enough push that Ice gets the message.

He pulls away without hesitation, removing his hands from Maverick’s body as if he’d been burned. He can feel the rejection swimming in his gut, killing his erection that had, up until ten seconds ago, been straining painfully against the seam of his jeans. 

An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but before he can really work himself into a _full on_ panic, Maverick grips his hand and pulls Ice back into the warmth of his body that’s still pressed against the door. Ice goes hesitantly, but willingly and he can feel Maverick’s chest vibrating against his with a laugh. 

“What?” Ice demands, a bit harshly, but he’s confused and unsure and he doesn't do vulnerable well, okay? And right now, pressed up against the person he desires most in this world, who he’d been more than content to continue kissing and touching well into the late hours of the morning, he’s feeling a little vulnerable because Maverick _pushed him away._

Maverick, however, doesn't seem fazed by his tone, it only seems to make his look even more fond and that sobers Ice just a little bit, because _that’s new._ Granted, this whole thing—the kissing and the touching and the groping and the flirting—is new, but still. The point remains that Maverick has _never_ looked at him that way. This mixture of fond and exasperated and so many other things Ice isn't sure he can name. 

Because Ice knows it’s the same look that’s on his face anytime Maverick is being his usual Maverick self and there’s _no way_ Maverick can be as in love with Ice as Ice is with Maverick.

It’s just mathematically impossible.

“Nothing,” Maverick says and Ice should be affronted by the soothing tone of his voice, but he won’t deny that it does ease the embarrassment and unsureness swirling in his chest a little bit, making him relax a little bit more into Maverick’s chest, “I promise I’m not laughing at you,” Maverick tells him in that same soothing tone, “I just wanted to hit the brakes for a minute, that’s all.”

Ice gives him a look of utter disbelief. 

“You wanted stop _that,”_ Ice demands slowly, with a significant tilt of his head, “to what? Talk about your feelings?”

He’s being a prickly asshole about this, he knows, but he’s a little upset and reeling from that kiss and the total one-eighty Maverick has pulled on him.

Maverick rolls his eyes, but Ice can see the flush on his cheeks and the way his eyes dip to the hardwood floors of Ice’s entry way, “No,” he says and Ice would be amused at the amount of petulance in his voice if he still wasn't so damn confused, “I just want to make sure that—“ he pauses, looking back up into Ice’s eyes and Ice is only further mystified by the look of confused vulnerability in Maverick’s eyes.

“You’ve had a lot to drink tonight,” Maverick says instead and the words sound like they’re supposed to be significant in some way, which, again, _not_ helping with the whole confusion thing. 

“So?” Ice responds, shrugging his shoulders, “So did you.”

Maverick huffs, a look of frustration on his face, like Ice is supposed to understand something and _he’s just not getting it_. 

“Ice, you sang to me,” Maverick says, as if that’s supposed to both clear everything up and explain it at the same time, “in front of the whole bar. You’ve been flirting with me. You got _drunk._ You _never_ get drunk. And then you flirt with me some more. And then you _kiss_ me—“

“Technically, you kissed me,” Ice points out and Maverick shoots him an unamused glare, “Sorry,” Ice adds, somewhat insincerely, “but I’m having a hard time understanding why any of this is significant to our current predicament.”

Maverick opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it with a sigh of annoyance, looking down at the floor again and shielding his eyes from Ice’s penetrating gaze. 

“I just don’t want you to regret anything, in the morning, when you’re sober,” Maverick admits, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve wanted this for—well, basically since I met you, remember?” Maverick asks, chancing a glance up at Ice, “You were all, _do you need any help? I can help you figure out who the best pilot is, I’ve heard that about you, you like to work alone, I’ll see you later.“_ Maverick’s pitched his voice in an over exaggerated low baritone that is a pretty piss poor impression of Ice’s voice, inflicting their first conversation with suggestive notes to the words and it makes Ice flush, because _yeah_ , he might’ve meant it the way it sounded.

“I couldn't handle it if this is just a one night thing,” Maverick continues in his normal voice, “Ever since the Layton rescue, ever since—“ Maverick cuts himself off and the _Goose_ hangs between them, unspoken, “—you’ve become my best friend and I don’t want to lose that, not—“ 

_You too,_ Ice finishes what Maverick won’t say and it makes his heart constrict. 

Maverick shrugs lamely, laughing in a way that’s more air leaving his lungs than an actual amused sound and Ice understands.

“Maverick Mitchell wants more than a one night stand?” Ice says and it’s meant to be teasing but Maverick winces and Ice regrets it immediately, giving Maverick an apologetic smile. He’s never been good at this part of the relationship, but he knows he has to try in order to make Maverick understand. 

“Mav,” Ice says gently, “One night with you would never be enough for me, I can promise you that.”

“Really?” Maverick asks, voice hopeful and it does funny things to Ice’s chest. 

“Really,” Ice confirms, and then it’s his turn to look away and study the wooden floors beneath his feet, “I knew of you, before Top Gun and I was always… _curious_ about you,” Ice shrugs, letting out a self-deprecating laugh, “When—when I met you,” he corrects hastily at Maverick’s wince, “it confirmed what I already knew. I’ve wanted you since I knew you existed in this world. I just didn't know how to love you and still compete with you at the same time and I thought—well, I’ve only ever seen you with women.”

Maverick laughs and it makes Ice look up, raising an eyebrow. 

“Sorry, it’s just,” Maverick chuckles, shaking his and giving Ice that _look,_ “Ice, we’re both in the military, I can’t exactly go around advertising that I like to fuck men.

“To fuck men or be fucked _by_ men?” Ice asks, smirking. 

“Not that they’re mutually exclusive,” Maverick says with a roll of his eyes,“but I don’t have a preference.” He admits with only a faint blush and arousal pools low in Ice’s gut. 

Ice hums, “Good to know.”

Maverick rolls his eyes, shoving at Ice’s chest, but he’s laughing and it makes Ice laugh, too. The serious part of the conversation seems to be over with and Ice is secretly glad. He’s done enough confessions for the night and Maverick seems to have the same idea, looking up at Ice with a small smile and Ice smiles back, brushing his fingers over Maverick’s cheek.

“Hi,” Ice murmurs, running his thumb over Maverick’s still kiss swollen lips. He feels the warmth of Maverick’s chuckle wash over the sensitive skin of his thumb and it makes a pleasant shiver go down his spine.

“Hi,” Maverick whispers back, eyes shining, even in the darkness, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” Ice asks distractedly, tracing Maverick’s jaw line, the shell of his ear, brushing his ink black hair off of his forehead. It’s soft and light and Ice decides to keep his fingers there, enjoying the texture under his fingers. 

“When you said you loved me,” Maverick clarifies, voice soft, hesitant and Ice meets his eyes and sees the same hopeful glimmer Ice feels in his heart every time he gazes into those beautiful stormy blue eyes.

“Yeah,” Ice breathes, cupping Maverick’s jaw, “Yeah, I meant it.”

Maverick nods, leaning into Ice’s touch, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the attention, “Good,” he murmurs, opening his eyes and smiling up at Ice, “Because I love you, too.”

Ice’s breath stutters to a stop in his lungs and he’s pretty sure he’s dreaming or still drunk or maybe both, and he’s going to wake up tomorrow, sober and hungover and none of this would’ve been real. 

And if that’s the case, he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts, down to the last second, to the last detail.

“Good,” Ice whispers, “I’m glad we got that figured out.”

He brushes a kiss against Maverick’s lips, a flicker of heat and want seeping into his blood and he murmurs, “Bedroom?” between kisses, relief and desire sweeping through him when Maverick hums in agreement against his lips. 

They stumble down the hallway to Ice’s bedroom, laughing between kisses when they bump into things or they get tangled up in their clothes in their haste to get them off. They don’t part for long, coming back into each other’s orbit, following the pull towards each other and they meet each other half way each time.

And when Ice wakes up in the morning, it’s to an empty bed and the smell of burnt pancakes and Maverick singing _You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling_ loudly and off-key. And when he makes his way into the kitchen, Maverick shoots him grin over his shoulder, only pausing in his singing to ask Ice whether or not he wants to join in. He laughs when Ice throws a dish towel at him and crowds him up against the counter to steal the rest of the lyrics from his lips.

(It’s purely coincidence that Maverick catches him a few hours later in the shower, singing the song under his breath as he shampoos his hair. He can’t find it in him to be embarrassed, because it’s because of this stupid song that they’re even _here_ , together, in the first place. It’s kind of _theirs_ now and Ice decides that he likes the way that sounds. Him. Maverick _._ Them. _Together)._

_Always_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading (: I hope you guys enjoyed it and I would love to write more of these things because they're a blast to write.


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